Purge Me Of These Sins
by an-alternate-world
Summary: Riddled by guilt in the wake of Pax's death, Connor struggles to find ways to cope with what he saw or forget what happened. Using alcohol and sex seem to be the only options he has.


**Title: **Purge Me Of These Sins  
**Author: **an-alternate-world  
**Rating:** M  
**Characters/Pairing: **Connor Walsh/Oliver Hampton, Connor Walsh/Paxton Curtis  
**Word Count:** 3,227  
**Summary:** Riddled by guilt in the wake of Pax's death, Connor struggles to find ways to cope with what he saw or forget what happened. Using alcohol and sex seem to be the only options he has.  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Spoilers for 1x04 and what takes place in that episode.  
**Disclaimer:** I am in no way associated with _How To Get Away With Murder_, ABC, Peter Nowalk, Shonda Rhimes, or anything else related to the ABC universe.

* * *

He needs a drink.

Once the body is loaded away, once he's given his statement, once they're herded back to Annalise's house and try a new angle for the case, once they're finally told they can leave for the night, he slinks away from the office, ditches Wes and Laurel and Michaela and Asher, and finds the nearest bar with the darkest corner and the largest glass of scotch and drinks and drinks and drinks.

At first, the liquid burns down his throat and makes his eyes water. After a few mouthfuls, he thinks his throat might have just been burned raw and he doesn't feel it anymore. His eyes still water with each swallow, but that might also be because there's an endless replay of seeing Pax tip backwards and-

He clenches his eyes shut and tips some more amber liquid down his throat.

He drinks until the bartender won't top his glass up anymore. He's been half-slumped against the table for at least a couple of rounds and it's nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. The only reason he does is because he sees the events of the day with more startling clarity than he wants to and he thinks he might die himself with the heaviness that encases him. He feels warm and heavy with the amount of alcohol in his blood. He hasn't been able to feel his feet for at least an hour and when he finally succeeds at pulling his phone from his pocket, he has to ask the bartender to dial a number for him because his thumb won't cooperate and his eyes are too blurred to see. He listens to the drone of the guy's voice explain where he is and the shape he's in as he folds his arms beneath his head as a makeshift pillow.

He probably drifts in and out of sleep while he waits, reliving the scene over and over and over regardless of how much he tries to forget about it, to block it from his mind, to sink into the hazy embrace of too much alcohol. Instead it seems as though the deeper he tries to fall into a drunken oblivion of forgetting, the sharper his memories of Pax's body beneath him become. He can feel Pax's mouth attacking his collarbone, hear Pax's whimpers as he approached his climax, smell Pax's sweat mingling with his cologne. He knows Pax was using his body to erase suspicion from himself and it was Pax's obvious interest when they'd shaken hands that had aroused his suspicion in the first place. Anyone that paid too much attention to distracting you was worth paying closer attention to.

Except Pax hadn't played him.

Pax has thought he was diverting suspicion when, in fact, Connor had been setting him up, playing an even more ruthless game in obtaining evidence to break the case open for Annalise and-

"Connor?"

A body presses into the booth beside him, warm and solid. A hand presses against his upper back before moving higher, threading between the hairs at the back of his neck. The stillness of the hand against his skin makes him realise how badly he's trembling.

"Con?"

Oliver's voice is gentler than his firm fingers, guiding his head into raising, guiding his eyes into seeing. He's not sure what _they_ are. He's not sure how badly he's fucked with whatever they're doing by fucking Pax, but now Pax is fucking _dead_ because of a recording he obtained which Annalise used to inform Marren of her innocence and make Pax realise he was screwed and-

A sob bubbles out of him when he sees Oliver's frightened gaze trying to understand whatever is brimming in his head because he knows he'll never be able to explain everything that's happened. He doesn't do boyfriends, he doesn't do commitments, but he's also increasingly uncertain how to survive without him. There's a surprising level of comfort in having someone to fall back on or having someone hold you together after you've fragmented to pieces.

"Jesus Christ," Oliver mutters, sliding closer and wrapping his arms around Connor's shaking body. He's not sure where his hands end up – maybe bunching into Oliver's jacket – but being held by someone strong and safe helps, smelling Oliver's familiar cologne helps, feeling the familiar lines of his body under his fingers helps. "Breathe, Connor. Just breathe."

It sounds like it should be something that's easy to do. It's an automatic, unconscious reaction to breathe. It's something so biologically innate that sections of the brain switch off focusing on it because it knows you'll keep inhaling and exhaling. It's the most natural thing in the entire world to just breathe because you literally don't even have to think about it unless your attention is brought to the fact that your breathing is a mess because you realise you're still alive and being told to breathe and someone else _isn't_ breathing right now.

Because Pax wasn't breathing.

Pax's skull had shattered into a million pieces.

Pax's blood had leaked in thin red ribbons from his ears and mouth.

Pax's arm had broken beneath his body and his legs had twisted at odd angles.

Pax's chest had been still.

_Just breathe_ reminds him of what happened in a whole new, horrifying, way.

"H-He's d-dead," he gasps – sobs – and clutches tighter at Oliver's clothes as if he will disappear too, as if he will tip backwards out of a window and splinter into pieces no one could fix. Pax was like Humpty Dumpty except he'd sat on a window sill. "H-He- She f-fucking- I-"

Oliver hushes him, rubs the tips of his fingers into the back of his neck, and he feels like his bones are shaking out of his skin. "Slow down, Con," Ollie murmurs but Connor isn't sure how to slow down. It's been a sprinting race of terror and anxiety since he'd first noticed Pax had opened the window, since he'd heard the whimpered apology, since he'd watched those feet tip past Frank's grasp, since he'd heard the shouts of horror of employees and people below the window.

He holds onto Oliver because he doesn't have anything else to hold onto right now. The threads of his carefully constructed mask have separated and mangled into strands almost too small to identify. He's lost his grip on reality and his sanity just like Pax had lost his grip on the window sill and Frank hadn't been fast enough to grasp him and avoid such a catastrophe.

He can't deny it.

Pax's death has rattled him to the core.

"H-He fell o-out the fucking w-window," he says against Oliver's shoulder, his body buckling under the alcohol and distress of seeing Pax fall backwards, disappearing out of sight, the squeal of tires and the shrill screams and the-

"What?" Oliver says rather sharply, pulling back to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

He doesn't want to explain. He just wants to forget. It's why he'd drunk so much that now he doesn't remember what's left and right because the world keeps teetering back and forth. It's why he'd avoided closing his eyes for too long lest he keep seeing it over and over. The guilt isn't just gnawing at him. It's swallowing him whole.

He tips forward in counterpoint to Pax tipping back, feeling almost desperate as he grasps at the lapels of Oliver's jacket to mash their lips together. It's rough, it lacks any sort of finesse, but he lets himself drown in Oliver's mouth for half a minute instead of drowning in his despair.

"Connor," Oliver says, pushing him away and gaining some distance between them. "You're way too upset and drunk."

He can't deny it – he's not sure whether he would want to – but Oliver doesn't give him a chance because there's an arm around his lower back which guides him to his feet. He staggers and stumbles, struggling to orientate himself when the world spins and tips dangerously. His legs are too weak to hold him up properly but Oliver compensates for his difficulty walking by hauling him along, past tables and chairs until they spill onto the footpath like Pax's brain and blood had spilled onto a downtown sidewalk.

It's oddly disconcerting when he realises that while his internal world had fallen apart, the external world had continued its daily routine. The sun has fallen below the horizon like always, street lights have switched on to illuminate the darkness, people still scurry from work to home with no idea that someone committed suicide today. Oliver props him against a post and waves down a cab while he grapples with the realisation that in the grand scheme of things, Pax's death won't impact many people. He can feel the judgemental eyes of the cab driver when he nearly topples in but he doesn't think he'll throw up in the backseat. He's usually pretty good with holding his alcohol and avoiding a pukefest.

Oliver buckles him in and he's too limp to sit straight, which results in him slumping against Oliver's shoulder with his eyes half-closed when the world beyond the cab blurs. His thoughts drift back to Pax like they've been doing for hours, where he's back in the copy room with Pax's hips rocking beneath him, Pax's waist held in his hands, Pax's harsh puffs of breath against his cheek, Pax's sweat making their bodies twist together in a slippery mess. It feels like a betrayal to be collapsed against Ollie while reliving yesterday's latest sexploit moment with someone else.

Someone who evidently had a less supportive family regarding his sexuality.

Someone who was broken by the realisation he was going to jail.

Someone who was probably terrified by the insinuation that people would enjoy raping him in jail.

Someone who was betrayed by his boss, someone who had seen him as a son.

Someone who was betrayed by Connor, someone who had only been trying to do his job and get evidence to absolve Annalise's client.

Oliver helps him from the cab and into the elevator to rise to level three. Together they shuffle along the corridor to Ollie's apartment and once the door is closed, he feels desperate to make it all go away, like if he can replace the feel of Pax's body in his hands with Oliver's then everything will be okay again.

He practically lunges at Oliver, pawing at his clothes despite his fingers failing to cooperate in the removal of fabric. His feet drag on the floor when he steps closer and he nearly trips and it's only because Oliver is sober that they remain in a tangled heap of limbs while standing up.

"Con, you're _drunk_," Oliver says, as if Connor can't feel the alcohol thrumming through his veins and dousing his brain with an odd separation of reality. He feels so thoroughly disconnected from his body that he has to stare down at his hand for a minute and try to remember that it is, in fact, _his_ hand.

"P-Please Ollie," he slurs, grasping at Oliver's tie with as much strength as he can manage. "_Please_."

"You know that sex addict thing I mentioned?" Oliver painstakingly uncurls each of his fingers from the red strip of fabric that reminds Connor of Pax's blood earlier and settles his hands against Connor's shoulders to hold him still. He's probably swaying on the spot but he's pretty sure he could make an argument about the building being built on clouds and that's why it keeps moving. "I'm seriously convinced you have a problem."

He scrunches his nose and tries to come up with the best argument ever for why he's not some sort of addict. He'd laughed away Ollie's concerns the other day because he knows he's not an _addict_. He just likes feeling good, likes making someone else feel good, likes skin and heat and the slip-slide of bodies and-

"Fuck me," he says, blinking rapidly as he raises his eyes to look at Oliver's stunned expression. His hands struggle to undo the buttons on his shirt, his arms barely cooperative in shrugging out of his jacket. "Fuck m-me, Oliver."

He's not sure he has the clarity of mind required to appropriately beg or adequately explain why he needs to just forget everything and let Oliver fuck it all out of him. His skin crawls with the guilt and the image of Pax falling backwards and Frank's horrified face and he desperately needs to _forget_.

He stumbles in his steps to Oliver's room, shedding clothes with little care as he moves to the bed. He doesn't check to see if Ollie is following him but he knows that any determined resolve to deny him will break when he's spread naked on the bed, open and willing and available. Oliver is easy to manipulate in that respect. He's grateful for the softness of Oliver's blanket beneath his cheek when he finally collapses onto it, allowing the support of the mattress against his chest to reduce the difficulty in making his limbs hold him upright.

The discomfort and fear of the events of the day had just started to creep up his spine when he feels the bed dip under the weight of Oliver crawling onto it, hovering above him, a soft kiss pressed to the back of his shoulder as his hips lowered and Connor could feel the brush of Ollie's cock against the back of his leg.

"Con?" Oliver whispers, his hand pressing against Connor's back in something he supposes is meant to be soothing or comforting.

But he doesn't want soothing or comforting.

He needs rough.

He needs brutal.

He needs to have his mind and body turned inside out so he can purge himself off the guilt that festers along his nerves.

"_Ollie_," he pleads, twisting his head for Oliver's lips to cover his, reaching behind him to slot Oliver's bare skin tighter and closer against his own. It's difficult to kiss Ollie when they're like this but he's too heavy, too drunk, to figure out how to roll over now and make it easier for both of them.

Oliver reaches for the bedside table, for the lube and condom box left there from a couple of days ago, and he surrenders to hands coaxing his legs apart, fingers pressing inside him, lips kissing his back as the heat of Oliver's body presses down on Connor. He knows there are tears staining his cheeks that he thinks Oliver is ignoring in favour of spreading him apart faster. He knows he's probably too drunk to really get hard and feel much pleasure from this. He knows he can't do much but lay there and take it once Ollie pushes inside and rolls his hips lazily to give him time to adjust.

But it's not enough.

It's not enough to distract him from the pain of seeing someone he'd hooked up with fall to their death in front of him. It's not enough to soothe the realisation that he'd taken advantage of someone who lacked the familial support Connor was privileged to have. It's not enough to take away the hurt that Marren had accused Pax of being shameful because of information Connor had obtained. It's not enough to reduce the burden of Pax's death because of _him_ which keeps dragging him further and further into a pit of despair.

He places himself at Oliver's mercy, letting his lower body be raised so Ollie can touch him until he starts to get hard because his body reacts without his brain's approval. He lets Ollie pound his ass and dimly thinks Asher might actually have something to gloat about tomorrow when he's sensitive about sitting down too quickly. He lets Ollie fuck him so that he can stop thinking about the taste of Pax on his tongue, or the sly smile of Pax's lips as he'd kissed his way down Connor's body, or the way he'd shuddered with Pax's mouth on his neck and jaw as he'd thrust his hips up, or the faint burn of being filled with a size he'd only ever had once before.

Except the more he tries not to think about Pax and focus on Ollie, the more he blurs them in his mind. It's barely been more than twenty-four hours and he thinks he can still feel Pax's hands burning his skin just below the press of Ollie's fingers, can feel the width of Pax's shoulders and the jut of his hipbones against his belly which contrasts with the smaller frame of Ollie rocking into him from behind, can hear Pax's gasped moans and pleased whimpers against his neck and jaw which echo Ollie's muffled cries against his shoulder and the back of his neck.

At some point, despite how disconnected he feels from his body, he comes. He supposes it's an automatic reaction to the stimulation but it feels wrong to have a release. It feels like he gets punched in the gut when Ollie pants praise into his hair and lasts a few more thrusts before he trembles to a stop. He doesn't deserve praise. He doesn't deserve warmth. He's just used Ollie for sex – _again_ – and he hasn't breathed a word of his infidelity yet. Even though Pax was sex to him, even though he'd done it to elicit information, he doesn't think Oliver will see it that way if – _when_ – he finds out.

Because Oliver _will_ find out.

The guilt, the grief, the anxiety, the shame, will eat him alive until he will have no choice but to confess what he did and what happened and why he got so drunk and how he took advantage of Ollie to have sex in an attempt to erase Pax's touch from his skin.

"Are you okay?" Oliver murmurs, nuzzling at his hair when he's been too still, too silent, for too long. He knows he's lying in a damp patch of his own semen and he can feel the droplets of sweat which have settled along the curve of his spine and yet none of that disgusts him as much as what he'd done which had led to something so horrific. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to confess to Ollie that a guy killed himself because of a recording he'd made.

He doesn't even want to consider how he'd gotten it.

He doesn't want to remember how he'd made Pax's eyes water with pleasure.

His fingers bunch against the mattress, another tear escaping his eye and getting absorbed by the pillow beneath his cheek. "Need a shower," he mumbles, wriggling with a lot of difficulty out of Oliver's grasp and using the wall to support him on his journey to the bathroom. He can feel Oliver's gaze on him but he doesn't dare look back. He's worried the truth of what he'd done would be emblazoned across his chest.

He locks himself into the bathroom and sinks to the floor of the shower once the water is an acceptable temperature. He lets it cascade over him, drowning him slowly and heating his chilled bones. It's only then, when he knows that the rattle of the pipes and the hiss of the water will hide it, that he starts crying.

What has he _done_?

* * *

_**~FIN~**_


End file.
